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Still

The Government is making me attend a
Psychological Exam this upcoming Monday for my State Disability Claim.
*I already completed the Physical Exam on Tuesday.

I an aware of the Why, but I do not trust the unknown process.

See, I’ve lived in two different Psychiatric Facilities
(One Private, One Ward), and if you say the wrong things, you are locked away.
In places were Electric Shock Therapy is still performed, children are in padded rooms with their eyebrows cut off, the Schizophrenics walk around wearing only gowns talking to themselves while glaring madly at you.

The last time I lived In-patient was February 2000. Involuntary Status.
A fourth floor Psych. Ward inside a run-down Hospital.
I spent Valentine’s Day in there.
All the nut jobs and crazies(yes, very different) gave each other homemade Cards while the Heroine Addicts complained about Detox, the bad Mothers sobbing that their children were taken away by the State, the one’s with Brain Injuries wearing the same clothes daily and continuously Sleeping, and then me.
*I only spent 4 days there. 4 Days of persistent hell. Pain burned inside me that I can never erase. My scars of a time in my life that was unnecessary.

Why would I want to revisit that grave?
Tell some State Doctor how I’m feeling or what I’m working on with my Therapist?
*I begin my PTSD Processing and Cognitive Therapy next week with my current Counselor.
This means Opening the door to my Childhood Trauma (Repeat Molestation and Physical Abuse) for the first time in my life.
This treatment engages multiple channels. One does not jump head first into memories never operated on.
And, this State Appointment is interrupting my pain, causing me to want to walk away from Therapy altogether.

Why can’t it all be still, and let me find my way home?

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Something they don’t want me to have.

Change Inside The House Of Nostalgia

Autumn dreams reminding me of my first love. My grief in recollection is ticking away.
I have never put him in positive words.
But, the reminiscence I feel is truthfully within.

The day I saw him almost pass me by, October 16,  1996.
He was shy, awkward, almost ready.

His curly black hair, Latin eyes, Dickies, and Cortezs pulled me in.
*It was not in fashion back then to be
Hispanic, so a social community was formed to keep the culture alive.

He had to be to me as I walked up to him, introducing myself as the girl from afar with the crush.
*I will always regret that day in my history of love.
I wish a flash of linear time would have interrupted that single moment and warned me of what was to become.

The next few months were magic.
We shared our passion for music, the pain of our private family lives, and something deeper then could not be defined in our destined adulation.

I would be his First.

His sexual consciousness and devotion was sacred to him.
Him choosing me was an eternal connection we would have no matter how much pain influenced his innocence.
*He would go on to sexually assaulting me in April 1998.
He would call it Rape.

Before the assualt and after the physical, mental, and emotional torture he put me through, I could go directly to that place in time and genuinely feel that reflection of my love and the sadness of our relationship.
He departed into a person of so much anger, rage, hate.
It’s as if someone veiled the light inside his soul.
I knew it wasn’t my love.
He continued to bleed my youth dry.
But, I couldn’t let him go.

Now, The power of my own virtue is peace, forgiveness.
Something I gave him when he contacted me in 2005 (as he did before in January 2001).
He begged me to be his friend, but there was and still remains no point of walking down that incomplete road of what infinitely never was.

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“I can never reclaim my love, something I have never done the same. I had to design an artificial heart for the one I was given died when he broke me.” A.C

What Are Your Dreams

After months of research, again I come across a family member who volunteered his soul for Peace.

My Father’s Maternal set of Grandparents, One side being Dutch Immigrants from a time before radio, I knew it would take effort to locate my ancestry.
*My Father is Irish, Dutch & Shawnee/Kentucky Cherokee.
After four months of exploring and consulting,
I discovered a set of War Records.

The American Civil War.

I scrolled down the list of names and battles with ambivalence.

One word: Volunteer.
Second Word: Union.

I clicked on my distant kin, and there it was, his American Civil War Record.
His name, the dates he served, the actions of his Volunteer services, and the bold lettering of, Union.

The Volunteer Records of his Service were quite thorough.
At a time of uncertainty, he left his farm in Kentucky and joined The Union Army during The American Civil War.

He Survived.
Returning to his home and living his remainder of days in his Blue Grass State.

I wept with my Soul.
Thinking of my Great-Uncle who gave his life to end the Holocaust at the age of 19 as a Volunteer Infantry Man for the Normandy Invasion.
My late Grandfather who Volunteered for an INTERPOL Position during WWII.
*He was in charge of sinking
U-Boats.
He came home with Victory.

This man, my distant relative, who Volunteered for The Union Army, did so with the idea of peace and freedom.

How time parallels.
This Tuesday, I have an Interview at a private African-American University.
The idea of racism, prejudice, inequality doesn’t live inside the hearts and minds of my ancestors.

We are the believers.
Not just to do the right thing, but live it is my DNA.
My Family, We are the change.

That man, who Volunteered for The Union Army, was my
3x Great-Grandfather.

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What I believe my 3x Great-Grandfather would have said about
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

“He was a friend of mine. His heart was in every line. He sang of the joy and pain. He opened up our minds.”
The Commodores

Determining The Dead

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“What’s happened has happened
What’s coming is already on its way
With a role for me to play

I don’t understand
I’ll never understand
But I’ll try to understand
There’s nothing else I can do.” F A

I sit. Waiting. In a line of dead people and they don’t even know it.
Bureau of Disability Determination Services.
I am alone.
Filling out forty + pages of my life like I’m a Brochure for Medicare.
It’s painful.
Not the time I waste, but the history of my Health (or lack there of) spread open on Government Pages stained with out of time.

I’m tired.
Why.
I have to prove that I have been
Sick from in In utero.

I wish I could just burn my clothes and reveal the surgical scars that cover my broken down body.

I can tell you stories of unspeakable suffering, but what will that do?
Change minds of people who have never endured physical misery?

I can cut my teeth on the rhetoric of
my affliction, never asking for a cure, just some peace, comfort from solace arms.

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I know. It will never be.
I will never be.
My health consumes my external world and my time is ignored infinitely.

Bones Of Contention

I relapsed last night.
This will be my only time to tell about the sadness that brought me there.

I am going through a current chapter of my time here that is painfully exhausting.

One. I was wrongfully terminated from my last Employer.
I am now involved in a Discrimination Case. I successfully won the first round with HR.
The second process is taking a lifetime.

Second. I’m in a Three-Way Lawsuit.
I have no more financial means to continue my Fight, so an Agreement has been made and in Six Days, and after a nine month Court Battle, it will come to a defeated end.
*My honesty is my vice, and never giving up on anyone’s conscience will forever leave me spent.

Third. My Significant Other had someone break into my email and networking accounts to take Screen Shots to cause me harm for telling his truth.
*He lied about his Injury he received in Afghanistan.
The last 72 Hours, I have been living in his hell. Threats. Deceit. Divorce on the table again.
*After almost eight years of Marriage, the disruption he has caused: my life, my career, my health, my dreams, I am satisfied to give him a Divorce.
*Behind all my anger, I am heartbroken.

Four. My Health. My Colon is descending from my ancient body.
My SCN is in current trouble.
The Skin on my right hand has been falling off since Spring.
My R Lung hurts.
My MD has me reckless, deep in drowning myself.

Why wouldn’t I relapse?
Leaning over my dirty bathroom sink as I swallowed my toothbrush and filled the top of the drain with my late caloric intake of sliced mozzarella and doritos.

I felt WONDERFUL.

After the ritual clean-up, I went inside my bed. My alone tomb.
I closed my eyes. Brain photos of Christy Henrich and Karen Carpenter were singing me to sleep.

Goodnight.
Goodnight little girl.
You have cracked wide open exposing your flaws and broken flesh.
They hear you weeping behind your life door.
But, Nobody cares.
Suck it up. Move forward. Even if dying in the process is your only answer.

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“I step out the front door like a ghost
into the fog where no one notices.
In between the moon and me
I get a better view
of the crumbling difference between what’s wrong and right.
And I’m alone.
Why?
I don’t know.”
Counting Crows & AC

Anatomy Of Melancholy Part II

I’m having a difficult time today.
I’m not sure if it’s my 15th Anniversary of Surviving Suicide inching closer, the Divorce Process I started(I found out he falsified his injuries in Afghanistan.   Devastation is an undercurrent now)
Or, is it My Colitis has kept me bedridden and hospitalized since Tuesday.

All I know is I’m hurting.
I’m alone.
And I think about it more than ever.

It’s a Disease. I am conscious of this.
I can never turn it off, silence the conclusion, dim the pain.
I have to wake up, live it, move on.

But, I am reminded everyday of the interconnections I have with objects of Suicide.

When you look at a Train, you think of Transportation, movement, time.
When I see a Train, I drift away and envision how Attila Jozsef was crushed by a Carriage Car after he threw himself on the tracks to end his life.
*There were witnesses to his Suicide.

Or the stories of the New York Subway Suicides my late Uncle would recall on our Sunday phone chats.
He would run down to the platform to catch the Subway to work, and the walls would be painted red.
“Someone jumped. They just jumped.” my late Uncle Karcsi would say as if the shock of Public Suicide wore away.
I was fascinated.

The longer I remain here the more I become disconnected.
A change of country or state, furthering my education and Writing will only prolong my suffering.
I am willing to accept these maladies with a universal longing for a Cure.

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I have NEVER found Suicide a Selfish act.
Actually, I feel with all my soul it takes infinite courage to end your own life.
What’s selfish is living life dead.

Anatomy Of Melancholy Part I

How do you tell someone,  anyone, that everyday you wake up, you think about it.  Day dream about it.  Plan it. 
It’s a disease.  A forever wound.  A cerebral struggle.

I think back to my first Reading of
The Savage God, A Study of Suicide by A. Alvarez.
The first forty-five pages are dedicated to his description, his memory, his meetings with Sylvia Plath.
How he did not know her, or who she was.
Or, the fact she was a Writer.
A fellow depressant.

A. Alvarez’s book goes on with His personal and public analysis of Suicide. He acknowledges the taboo of the attitude toward Suicide, the disposition of the Forever.
Alvarez breaks down the basic human principles of life, and how Suicide challenges our biological existence.

His book is not for the muffled, the delicate souls.

I waited seven years after my last Suicide attempt to read it.

Everything changes when you survive Suicide, and the State feels you belong in a Private Mental Facility.
(The term, ‘Mental Hospital’ is old fashion, inhumane).
And, if you don’t complete the Program, you are locked away, Institutionalized.

That’s the real battle.
Never really giving away too much material of self, so all it takes is one moment of regret.
Then one locked away in a cage of isolation and government pharmaceuticals.

A. Alvarez did not write about this.

I have to fill in the blanks, the missing accuracy of today’s Suicide.

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“Not knowing how to think
I scream aloud, begin to sink
My legs and arms are broken down
With envy for the solid ground
I’m reaching for the life within me
How can one man stop his ending.
Now waking to the sun
I calculate what I had done
Like jumping from the bow
Just to prove that I knew how
My will to quickly end it all
Set front row in my need to fall
Into the ocean, end it all.”

Blue October